Teresa Medeiros (52 page)

On the day Gerard Claremont, alias Captain Doom, was to be tried for multiple acts of piracy spanning six years, the abduction of one Miss Lucinda Snow, and high treason against His Majesty the King, Lucien Snow awoke in a frightful snit.

His temper worsened when breakfast was served late, his kippers were cold, and the medals he had chosen to display on his favorite uniform when he made his testimony that afternoon had yet to be polished.

Damn Smythe anyway! he thought, slamming the lid back on the serving tray. The blasted traitor had done the work of ten servants. The man’s defection had carved an enormous hole in his beloved routine.

Perhaps after Claremont was dead, he mused, he would invite his butler back into the household. By then, the man should be docile enough. Not only would he have the questionable fate of his insipid Lucy to fret about, but the Admiral could parcel out just enough laudanum to ensure his loyalty. Perhaps he would even look into procuring some opium.

Cheered by the image of a bright and orderly future, the Admiral dressed himself, not wanting that ridiculous fop he’d hired as a valet hovering about on such a momentous occasion. When he was satisfied with his appearance, he went to the wardrobe and removed his dress pistol. The weight of the weapon fit comfortably into his hand.

Today justice would be served, if not by the court, than by him. He’d already offered a substantial bribe to two of Newgate’s guards. If the jury showed signs of delivering a less than satisfactory verdict, a dramatic escape attempt would ensue.

Slipping the pistol into his sash, he admired his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling pier glass.

When Claremont broke free of his chains and raced for freedom, he would have no choice but to gun him down cold. After all, what else was a hero to do?

K
EVIN CLAREMONT HAD PROVED HIMSELF an excellent judge of human nature.

On the afternoon of his brother’s trial, the benches and galleries of the Old Bailey were filled to overflowing with a seething mass of supporters, a surprising number of them women. There wasn’t a newspaper in London or any of its outlying counties that hadn’t published a dramatic account of Gerard Claremont’s daring rescue of the crew of the
Courageous
and his noble sacrifice of freedom for country and king. It was the stuff of irresistible romance and Captain Doom was being hailed as a hero from Surrey to Suffolk.

“There he is!”

“Gawd, ’e’s a ’andsome fellow, ain’t ’e?”

One woman waved a sketch of his profile she had purchased for a hard-earned ha’penny. “Ye can carry me off, Cap’n Doom. Won’t have to worry ’bout me defendin’ my virtue, ’cause I ain’t got any!”

The crowd roared with bawdy laughter as Gerard was led through the ranks of his admirers by two
armed guards. His own grasp of human nature was even keener than his brother’s. He knew that by noon tomorrow, these same zealous souls would be thronging the courtyard at Newgate with baskets of food and bottles of gin to watch him hang.

He acknowledged their raucous cheers with a gracious nod, playing his role of doomed hero to the hilt. Someone might as well get some enjoyment out of this farce, he thought, and it damned sure wasn’t going to be him.

A roar of approval from an upper gallery brought a genuine smile to his lips. His crew had chosen their seats as the ideal spot from which to heckle the proceedings.

“Give ’em hell, Cap’n,” Tarn shouted.

“Likewise, sir.” Pudge waved his kerchief in a jaunty salute.

Their familiar faces gave Gerard a pang of bittersweet satisfaction. This time he would go to his fate without dragging his crew along with him. As he’d requested, the King had granted them an unconditional pardon due to their valiant actions in the
Courageous
incident, provided they vowed to never again turn their talents to piracy. His Majesty was obviously hoping such benevolence would appease a populace already resigned to Gerard’s impending martyrdom.

Only Apollo was absent. Gerard’s request that the imposing African be allowed to represent him had been met with pitying contempt. The magistrates didn’t believe the dark-skinned “savage” capable of speech, much less eloquence. He’d been banned from the courtroom for fear his startling appearance and unpredictable temperament might cause a riot. They’d proceeded to assign Gerard a mousy servant whose wig had faded to yellow and whose breath reeked of gin.

Gerard doubted it would make much difference, for neither he nor his lawyer would be allowed to question or cross-examine any of the witnesses. His trial was to be little more than a formality. A diverting prelude to his execution.

At his brief pause, one of the guards gave the shackles at his wrists a sharp jerk. Gerard didn’t even flinch. They had no way of knowing their chains couldn’t hurt him; he’d been toughened to their bite long ago.

As he sank onto the bench, he discovered his brother had wrangled a seat behind his, all the better to offer irrelevant commentary, a particular talent of Kevin’s. “I never dreamed being a condemned felon was such an enticement to the ladies,” he whispered. “Why, they’re all but tossing their drawers at you.”

“Don’t rush it. I’m not condemned yet.”

But as the doors at the back of the court flew open and Admiral Sir Lucien Snow swept in, medals gleaming and the fringe of his epaulettes starched to crisp perfection, Gerard knew it was only a matter of time. The Admiral’s passage to his seat was greeted by a gratifying chorus of boos and hisses from the gallery. The crowd stamped their feet, eager for any excuse to cause a commotion.

The judge pounded his gavel on the bench. “Silence now! I won’t stand for chaos in the King’s court!”

It wasn’t the tiny man’s querulous demands for order that silenced the boisterous mob, but the unexpected arrival of a second figure. With a collective gasp of excitement, the crowd craned their necks for a look at the most elusive object of their curiosity. Even the jurors could not resist a shy peek.

Lucinda Snow stood framed in the doorway, garbed in magnificent white from the soles of her dainty kid slippers to the ribbon of ivory satin crowning her elegant
chignon. A woolen pelisse was draped over her slender shoulders and a matching reticule dangled from her gloved hands. At the sight of her, Gerard’s mouth went dry with yearning.

To his acute relief, no rude catcalls, whistles, or ribald jibes accompanied her graceful promenade to the seat next to the Admiral. The Admiral did not look pleased to see her, but when had he ever?

“The press?” Gerard murmured to his brother, unable to tear his eyes away from her. “Have they treated her unkindly?”

Ignoring the warning glares of the guards, Kevin leaned over Gerard’s shoulder so his words would not be overheard. “At first they were eager to paint her as a ruined woman, but her carefully calculated public appearances at soirées, the theater, and the like has convinced them otherwise. As you can see for yourself, she’s behaving like a lady with nothing to hide and they’re damned impressed.” He couldn’t resist a mocking leer. “They’re speculating that she spurned your wicked advances, even at risk to her own life. She’s being hailed as an inspiration to maidens everywhere, a veritable bastion of chastity, a guardian of—”

“Oh, shut up,” Gerard growled. “I get the point.”

Its irony failed to amuse him. While Lucy had been promoting her moral purity in salons all over London, he’d been surviving the darkness of confinement only by dreaming of her luscious body sugared with sand on the beach at Tenerife. The echo of her voice, hoarse with passion and love, had been the only thing powerful enough to drown out the inescapable clink of his chains.

There was no trace of that passionate creature in the courtroom today. Lucy looked cool and beautiful and eager to see him hang.

He scowled. Perhaps the reality of having her own
swanlike neck stretched on the gallows had finally penetrated. He ought to be delighted. He’d gotten exactly what he wanted—Lucy safe from harm and protected from scandal, free to build a future with some decent, law-abiding man who had a life expectancy over twelve hours. So why did he want to wring her fickle little neck?

“If you don’t stop glowering at her like that,” Kevin whispered, “you’re going to damage her reputation beyond repair.”

Gerard jerked his gaze away from her, rubbing a tense hand over his beard. He suppressed a groan as the Admiral was called to testify. He wasn’t sure he could endure the man’s bombastic tirade without even a drop of Smythe’s coffee to keep him awake.

It was worse than he feared. Two hours later, he was still fighting to keep his face impassive as the man discredited him, painting him as an avaricious monster who thought his scheme to defraud an Admiral of the Fleet a fine joke upon Navy and Crown. The mood of the crowd was beginning to waver. The jurors started casting him covert, but condemning, glances.

“Easily swayed, aren’t they?” Kevin muttered. For the first time, Gerard heard the frustrated fear in his voice. It was one of the things he hated most about this nightmare. That Kevin would have to learn in such a harsh way that his big brother wasn’t immortal after all.

He kept his own tone deliberately playful. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. By the time he’s through, they’ll probably want to lynch me themselves.”

Lucy sat silently through her father’s damning testimony, never once glancing his way. Kevin poked him. He was glowering again.

Gerard breathed a sigh of relief when the Admiral finished his diatribe with a rousing call for justice, then
limped back to his seat, leaning heavily on his cane for dramatic effect. Gerard was tempted to applaud the performance. As Lucy bestowed a tender smile upon the wretch, he stirred restlessly, rattling his chains.

The prosecuting attorney made a great show of examining a sheaf of papers through his quizzing glass. His nasal voice rang out. “I should like to call as an informer to the prosecution”—he paused to clear his scrawny throat—“Miss Lucinda Snow.”

G
ERARD SANK BACK ON THE BENCH AS IF he’d been struck a mortal blow. Christ, he thought, even hanging would be preferable to this. Not even his brother’s bracing hand on his shoulder could ease his anguish.

“My compliments,” Kevin offered as way of condolence. “When you set out to make a woman hate you, you do a capital job.”

The crowd’s initial furor subsided into rapt silence as Lucy took the stand. She perched on the edge of the crude wooden chair as if it were a throne and she a princess determined to see a common knave punished for daring to touch the hem of her gown. Her gloved hands were folded demurely over her reticule. Gerard shot a furious glance at the Admiral, expecting to find him purple with triumph. The man looked as shocked as he felt.

Of course he would, Gerard realized. The Admiral would never approve of his daughter making a public spectacle of herself this way. Lucy must have concocted
this petty little revenge all by herself. He shook his head ruefully, amazed that even as she was squeezing the last drop of blood from his heart, it could still surge with admiration for her.

“Miss Snow,” the prosecutor began, “could you please identify the man who applied for employment as your bodyguard”—the word drew a few ugly snickers from the crowd—“this past October?”

“Certainly.” She pointed a gloved finger straight at Gerard, her composed face betraying not so much as a flicker of emotion. He met her gaze squarely, lounging back on the bench with deliberate arrogance.

“You are respected as a woman of superior intellect,” the prosecutor continued. “I must deduce that this blackguard gave you cause to be suspicious of his sinister motives from the very beginning.”

“No, sir, he did not.” Lucy’s voice was so soft that the crowd had to strain to hear her. Strain they did. Not so much as an indrawn breath or rustle of movement profaned the tense silence. “Mr. Claremont was quite chivalrous. He vowed to hold my life as dear as his own.”

Gerard’s bewilderment grew, but he knew he couldn’t have looked half as dumbfounded as the prosecutor. These were obviously not the answers they’d rehearsed in his chambers.